and maybe next time we can hold hands
by lillialyce
Summary: Oneshot. "Their mouths move with desperation, but they are somehow elegant, a tragic dance before an impending, horrible end." Nations are forbidden from having relationships.


Deanon from the kinkmeme.

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><p>They aren't wearing disguises, thank <em>God<em>. He looks and feels like an idiot—well, not an idiot, just a less attractive version of his sexy Italian self—when he wears the fedora and the fake mustache.

Spain thinks it's cute, though, so _sometimes_ Romano dresses up when he knows Spain is going to be around. Not for _Spain_, just in general. Definitely not for Spain.

But those times are rare because then it's on the news that the people in the southern part of Italy are sneaking into the country of Spain, and Veneziano always gives Romano these stupid, knowing looks whenever they're about to sleep, and it's not worth it. It's fucking embarrassing having his _younger brother_ knowing things he isn't supposed to know.

If he and Spain have gone through the trouble of trying to _hide_ something, Veneziano of all people shouldn't be the one to figure it out.

He and Spain planned this date months ago, knowing how hectic both of their schedules were (and it's hard as hell to find a free moment where they can both disappear together and no one will notice, especially since Veneziano is clinging to Romano now that he can't spend time with his 'precious' bastard Germany), and though Romano hadn't been _thinking_ about his and Spain's date at every spare moment—he _really_ hadn't—time definitely moved slowly until the day came.

Thank _God_ it came.

And, impeccably dressed as he always is, Romano did _not_ spend four hours and thirty seven minutes making sure his suit was perfect and his hair was tamed and his curl had enough bounce. He's just naturally suave.

Spain sits in front of him, smiling as usual, but his smile is strained. The slight tightness of Spain's smile isn't recognizable to most people, but Romano isn't just _most people_, he's Spain's fucking _boyfriend_. Or, well, maybe Spain's his political ally. Technically, that's all they're allowed to be, and, even then, Spain and Romano aren't supposed to interact with each other. Besides, he doesn't want to get in trouble with their bosses or cause some huge uproar.

Romano isn't ready to start a revolution, even though he knows how much this law is hurting the others. He doesn't have that kind of spark, that kind of determination, and he's selfish and can't disobey his boss's commands. None of them can.

Much as he wants to, Romano isn't going to be the one to end this period of forbidden relations.

(He thinks, though, that the French bastard is growing frustrated, so maybe France will be the first one to crack.)

It had been hard enough for them to get together. The rule had already been in place when he'd fully come to terms with his feelings for Spain—not that his feelings were abnormally _romantic_ or sappy because he was a Goddamn _man_—and then it had been impossible for him to tell Spain. World meetings had been uncomfortable, with not-too-subtle glances shared between them (to which Spain would smile and wave, and _God_, Romano wanted to touch Spain so much, then).

Romano hadn't _cried_, exactly, when he'd been feeling so alone. His eyes just stung when he thought no other people were around. And after years of sitting next to Spain in those meetings and staring and feeling his heart beat too fast and his face flush and his words die on his lips, Romano figured he needed to tell Spain.

He needed to tell _someone_, and Spain was really the only person he'd ever talked to. His logic was astounding, really.

The idea that he was in love with someone was more frightening than anything Romano had ever experienced (because it tied him to someone, made it all the more easier for someone to abandon him or break him or hurt him, again), but it was tearing him up inside, being near Spain so often and not knowing what to do.

It was at a lunch break when Romano managed to get Spain alone. Because he was maybe kind of weak, he thought that he would cry or break down. Just as he was about to tell Spain, it occurred to him that a love confession wouldn't change anything because they weren't allowed to be together.

If they weren't allowed to be together, what was the point?

Spain hadn't understood why Romano was so red and uncomfortable and sad. But then the words tumbled from Romano's lips, relief blossoming and taking over him when he realized that it was comforting to _talk_ to someone.

Spain smiled and pulled Romano aside and said he felt the same way.

And then, through rare smiles and tiny tears and small touches (and comfort, so much comfort), there came the problem of what to do. What were they supposed to do, now that they knew they had forbidden feelings for each other and weren't allowed to act on them?

Sneaking around and dating behind everyone's backs felt like the only option, then, and that was what they had done.

For sixty seven years, eight months, and thirteen days (not that Romano has been keeping count), Romano and Spain have been dating. And despite the dangers and awkwardness and the almost-being-caught aspects of it, dating Spain is the best thing that could ever happen to Romano.

Despite the pain that it brings him, brings them both, to love each other and not be able to fully act on it, dating Spain is worth it.

Sappy as it sounds, even Romano can't deny that.

Spain reaches across the table so their fingers brush, and Romano's heart rate spikes up to an unhealthy rate. He feels his face flush and scowls, trying not to look Spain in the eyes because he knows it'll make the bastard too excited.

Maybe they both deserve that, now, but Romano isn't about to sacrifice his pride. He's a fucking _man_.

"Bastard," Romano says instead, looping their fingers together and squeezing Spain's hand. Spain jumps, having been daydreaming during Romano's silence. "This restaurant sucks _ass_." He makes a face. "Makes sense since it's fucking _German_."

He doesn't look up to see Spain's face, but he knows Spain's no longer pensive. "It's hard to find a place, you know," Spain pouts.

Of course Romano knows. Spain knows that Romano knows because _Goddammit_, it's fucking hard to hide from everyone. They're in fucking _Germany_. It's the last place anyone would look for Romano.

"How about next time my cute little Romano—_Lovino_—can choose?" Spain winks, and the fact that he's so flirty makes Romano shiver. God, what he'd give to touch Spain's cheek, or brush against him, or hold him. It isn't the same, flirting with the pretty women.

Spain is different.

Romano sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. "I'd choose a better place, naturally." His voice is haughty, like usual. Spain needs to feel like everything between them is okay because _Spain_ is the one who feels more guilt about sneaking around, out of the two of them. "It wouldn't serve fucking _potatoes_ or shitty _wurst_, and we could eat as many Goddamn tomatoes as we want."

Spain's smile stretches into a full-blown grin. "Tomatoes. . ."

"And, damn it," Romano lowers his voice, looking around to make sure no one else is listening before saying more strongly, "I'll call you Spain instead of motherfucking _Antonio_ shitty-last-name, and we can eat in Italy without worrying that people will notice, and everyone will celebrate because _fuck yeah_, we're badasses together."

Romano feels Spain's hand pull away from his, and then it's stroking his cheek, warm and heavy and longing. "You're so cute, Roma—Lovino." Spain sighs. "So, so cute."

His cheeks burn. He never gets over when Spain says things like that. "I _know_."

Spain leans forward, and Romano is about to move, too, so they can kiss after so _fucking_ long. Spain's lips look warm and inviting, and Romano misses the way they feel against his, misses being able to slide his tongue into Spain's mouth, to hear their moans mingling together in the air, to run his hands over the muscles and curves of Spain's body.

It isn't sappy, it's fucking _love_, and with Spain it isn't sappy at all.

(The one time they'd chanced having sex—before having to explain to their bosses why the governments of Spain and Italy suddenly wanted to unify—had been beautiful and wonderful, and there are only a few other things Romano would rather have and do before he and Spain can have sex again.

Obviously that one time spoiled him.)

They're centimeters away from each other—Romano's heart pounding the way that only Spain could make it beat—when a voice cuts in, "Are you two alright?"

Spain and Romano jump back from each other, faces bright red. Breathing hard, Romano tries not to look at Spain.

"Would you like to order anything else?" the waiter continues amiably.

Romano shakes his head and glares (that fucking bastard, interrupting one of his and Spain's rare moments together) as Spain declines with a wide smile and asks for the check.

It's hard to be careful, Romano feels. Every little thing that a nation does plays a role in the actions of the country itself. Sickness causes shifts in weather and economy, new things mean areas in the country are being rebuilt. Eating a meal is the unofficial time citizens are to eat, and liking or hating a book or a movie makes for a new national ban or success.

They can't spend birthdays together. Phone calls and emails are sparse because then it's seen as their countries trying to form an alliance, which could lead to other countries making alliances which could lead to war.

Bosses and citizens don't understand what it feels like for nations to be so distant from other people, for Romano to be so distant from one of the few people who's ever loved him. They don't understand how hard it is to hold back emotions, how hard it is for Romano when someone as loving and kind as Spain makes a desperate noise that makes him just want to jump on Spain and make out.

Romano understands, of course, why their relationship is forbidden. If there is ever a war, Romano will side with Spain. If Romano and Spain are on opposite sides of a war, Romano could never take the war seriously. He could never fight Spain. He'll always go to Spain's side.

It's hard. There are times when he wants to scream "Screw the world!" and hold onto Spain and never let go, times where he doesn't give a damn about how the future will go.

But he knows that he can't change the law that has been made for the good of the _people_. Selfish as Romano is, he can't ignore his citizens, not when he remembers how hard it had been for them after the two world wars.

Since the rule was enacted, there hasn't been another world war. It's reason enough that the law will stay.

The waiter leaves their table, and when Romano watches him, he sees the waiter press a soft kiss to another waitress. Romano scowls. "That _ass_hole."

"Rom—Lovino!" Spain chastises. "You can't hate someone because he's from Germany! Everyone here is from Germany! Our waiter was really nice!"

"Dammit, I don't hate him because of _that_," Romano snaps, narrowing his eyes at another couple at a nearby table. He wants that, for him and Spain. He wants that so, so much.

Freedom.

"You know the waiters don't do the cooking, right?" Spain laughs, and it sounds so genuine that Romano has to crack a smile. At least Spain is happy. "So he didn't make the. . . whatever it was that you ordered and didn't eat."

Romano rolls his eyes. "I _know_. I'm not an idiot, like you."

"So why are yo—"

The waiter returns then, to drop off the check, and Romano is relieved that he doesn't have to explain himself. He doesn't want to make Spain wistful because sadness doesn't look good on Spain.

"You're paying, dammit," Romano says when the waiter is out of earshot (and making out with his girlfriend, the bastard). "Since it was _your_ fucking idea to eat in this stupid place."

Not that Romano will ever admit it, but he doesn't care where they eat, or what they eat, as long as they're together. He'll eat a million more meals in Germany if it means he can spend more time with Spain.

"Lovino!" Spain pulls out his wallet as he protests. He always pays, anyway, so Romano's words are useless. "I'm going to be broke because of you!"

Romano doesn't want to think about how this one date is affecting the relationship between their countries.

As they begin their walk out of the restaurant, Romano can see the longing in Spain's eyes. Spain has always been a tactile person, and, even though Romano always protests, he always lets Spain have his way if it comes down to it.

It's loving, but Romano's no wimp.

They walk a short while, passing by stores with glass windows advertising shit that Romano loudly declares that he would never buy. People who walk by them on the sidewalk know that Spain and Romano are different and often stop to stare, but because the people aren't Spanish or Italian, there is no fear that they'll be caught. There is no strong surge of patriotism in these people as they pass, no feeling that Spain and Romano are motherfucking _nations_.

No, Spain and Romano are Antonio and Lovino, for today.

Romano looks at his reflection in the glass of a television store, swallowing when the televisions in the display show the news. Through some sick, masochistic urge, he stops walking and stares. Spain keeps walking and talking away before he realizes Romano isn't near him and scrambles back.

The report begins talking about yet another attempt by the Spanish and Italian governments to form an alliance. Apparently, Spain's people were trying to give money to the Italians in exchange for this connection. Romano can already picture their bosses' reactions, and he hates that he can't really blame them.

He wants to take Spain's hand in his, wants so much to hold Spain in his arms and receive the comfort he knows Spain can provide.

Spain takes a look at what Romano is watching and smiles a little bit. Romano knows that, for once, Spain understands exactly what Romano is feeling.

They walk away, not holding hands like Romano wants so much to be able to. They both know the risks now that they've seen the news, both know how much damage has been done this time. Romano wishes that he hadn't stopped to watch it. If they hadn't seen those reports, they could have continued in bliss, acting like the awkward couple on their first date. That's how they act for every date, since their times together are so infrequent.

After walking another block, Spain pulls them into an alley, shoving Romano to the brick wall of a building (and the idiot wrinkled his expensive designer outfit, dammit) and pressing his lips to Romano's neck.

Romano's mind goes blank. Spain is kissing him. Spain is _kissing_ him.

Then he realizes that Spain is trying to distract him. Because even though Spain isn't attentive and is in his own world most of the time, he knows when Romano is upset. He might not know what Romano is upset about, but he knows that there is some change in emotion that needs to be fixed.

Maybe Spain is wrong about why he wants to make Romano feel better, or maybe he is completely accurate.

All Romano knows is that it feels so Goddamn wonderful to have Spain's body so close to his, to have Spain's lips all over him. And he wants to move his mouth all over Spain, too.

"I wanted to do that this whole date," Spain complains, lips hot and desperate as they move up to Romano's jaw. One of Spain's hands is against the building as the other strokes Romano's cheek. "It's not fair! You look so _cute_ today!"

Well, looking good _had_ been the point of his long routine before the date. . . Not that he'd been _trying_ to look good for _Spain_.

"The news, you dumbass!" Romano grumbles, turning his head. His face is red, he knows. He can't push Spain away, not when he's just as eager to kiss Spain. "We can't! We fucking _can't_!"

"What news?" Spain feigns innocence (or maybe he doesn't, as Spain can be a bit stupid sometimes), sucking on a spot on Romano's neck that makes his knees go weak.

"Spain! Antonio! Pervert! Whatever! You know what damn news I mean!"

Spain presses a soft kiss to Romano's lips, and they both freeze. It's been so long, and the fire that burns through Romano's body at Spain's touch makes him forget everything. "Oh, well, if there's already news about us, it shouldn't hurt to go a little further. Right, Romano?"

Romano is frozen, both hating and loving how logical Spain is at that moment.

Why not? Then he smirks, shifting a little so Spain has better access to his lips. His wraps one arm around Spain's neck, to pull him closer, resting the other on Spain's ass (because, _Goddammit_, Spain has one _fine_ ass).

Spain's right that what's done is done. He can't take back what already happened, so they might as well go all the way. He really wants to, anyway.

Instead of saying anything, he brings his lips to Spain's.

As their mouths move together, Romano leans against the wall for support. He hasn't been with Spain for so long, hasn't kissed Spain since three dates before, hasn't been in Spain's arms in what feels like forever.

Spain's lips are every bit as wonderful as he remembers them being. Spain is never too rough with him, no matter how desperate they both are. Their tongues brush against one another, and Spain nibbles on Romano's lower lip. His fingers play with Romano's hair while Romano rubs his body against Spain's, for the heat he so desperately wants, so they can be closer. They have to be closer.

Their mouths move with desperation, but they are somehow elegant, a tragic dance before an impending, horrible end. Romano can't stop shaking, no matter what he does, and Spain's moving hands lack their usual grace.

Romano breaks away from Spain for only a second (of air, of fear, of regret) before smashing their mouths together again with all the passion and urgency that he's been feeling.

Their fingers brush eagerly against whatever skin is available, of necks and shoulders and stomachs, tugging away at layers of clothing that neither of them want. It's separating them, forming yet another barrier between them. But this time, they can overcome it, so they take that chance and run with it.

Romano pulls away Spain's jacket as Spain yanks at Romano's dress shirt. The scattering buttons and tearing cloth of their clothes means nothing until they are both completely open and free with each other. They don't move any lower than their hips, though their legs are wrapped around each other, erections hidden behind too-loose cloth pressing, rubbing, against the other.

Lips attack whatever skin is shown when the clothes are torn away, kisses and touches and tongue, everywhere but nowhere, desperate and eager for what they know they can't have.

They've already gone too far, but going even farther would ruin what they'd spent years trying to repair after the first time they'd had sex.

Romano licks his lips to try and speak, but all he can think is that he wants Spain, right then, and they can't. They fucking _can't_. He can almost hear the news report, the words from his boss when he returns to Italy.

What if this time their countries actually do unify? Romano can't even imagine the consequences.

He wants to run away with Spain. He wants to go somewhere for just the two of them, so they can be as open as they want to be. There are a thousand futures he pictures for them together, a thousand possibilities that could come if that stupid law was just overturned.

When it had been made, he hadn't realized that it would hurt so badly. Now, he wants the pain to stop.

Did their bosses know how much it hurt to see Spain at meetings? How much it hurt to sit next to him and not touch him? Did their bosses understand how long it had taken for Romano to come to term with his feelings, to accept that he loved Spain, that Spain had always loved him? Did they know how Spain had always been there for Romano? How Spain _couldn't_ always be there now?

Did they know how hard it was to date someone for almost sixty-eight years without being able to really hold each other? Did they know how hard it was to feel so sad and alone even though they had each other?

He can't hate their bosses for their fates (having met Spain's boss, once, he has to agree that she is a kind person, but then, she's also happily married and can be with her husband whenever she damn well wants), but he wants people to blame. He needs people to blame.

Romano understands that he and Spain aren't the only nations who feel this kind of pain. He knows how much it has hurt Veneziano to keep away from Germany, how hard it is for England to stop himself from going toward France or America. He's seen their pain, but he really only knows the weight of his own hurt because he's always been that selfish.

How much torture are he and Spain expected to go through?

Spain runs his fingers down Romano's chest, tracing the soft skin, eyes watering. Unspoken words leave his lips and wrap around Romano, but they can't do anything.

"Stupid," he whispers, ready to deny wanting Spain because that's just who he is, a person who denies everything no matter how obvious it is. But then, he realizes, he just can't lie to Spain. He has to sacrifice his pride for that moment, because it's one of the few moments that he has.

_I. . . B-bastard, I. . ._

It's one of the few that he will ever have, with Spain.

_I-I don't hate you._

Somewhere, in the midst of their kissing, Romano can taste the salt of tears. He isn't sure who is the one crying.


End file.
